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The Three Virtues
The Three Virtues is a tale of Jeremaias Auromere's adventure in Lakeshire, around June of 37 L.C. It marks the first contact with Edial Redblade, a death knight practicing illegal necromancy. Chapter One I am a paladin. I embody the Three Virtues. My symbol is a Hand. My calling is to serve. Jeremaias was glad of his hat--Caiterina O'Creagh was, among many things, an excellent haberdasher--because it was oppressively hot among the rocks of Redridge. Even the ripening fields gave no respite from the reflected sun. The vented hat allowed his head to stay cool, whereas his helmet would have cooked his brain like a boiled egg. Cooked like the rest of him. His armor was hot, and he felt like he was beginning to wilt. But it was good practice for the days to come in Stranglethorn Vale; he would endure. Enduring pointless misery was his one great talent, after all. Nobody stopped him as he crossed the great bridge, nor when he entered Lakeshire and rode along to the Town Hall. It was a little surprising, considering the town's proximity to the Burning Steppes, but perhaps they simply refrained because he was a very literal knight in shining armor, riding to the rescue. His warhorse shone more than he did, unwearied by the heat and journey; and, feeling the eyes of all upon it, decided to prance rather than merely walking. Jeremaias could have done without the showmanship, but this was a blessed spirit, not a mortal horse. As was traditional, it had chosen him, not he it, which made its assistance an honor he couldn't refuse--but it had proven as capricious as he was steady. He was really rather at its mercy. At least it hadn't decided to try pronking again. They arrived with great ceremony at the door of the Town Hall, and no sooner did he dismount than the spirit horse decided to amuse itself on some other plane of existence. The nearby townsfolk murmured and gasped in astonishment, but Jeremaias nonchalantly tied the pack mule's lead to the hitching post and, with a polite nod to those still watching, went in. Magistrate Solomon had grayed considerably since Jeremaias had seen him last, and had clearly forgotten that last time; he looked up from his work to the newcomer with the blank look one gets when trying to remember someone and failing. "What now?" Solomon asked irritably. "Your Honor, I came to help," Jeremaias said. Brevity was not only the soul of wit, but courtesy to a busy man. He took out the notice from the board back at Westbrook Garrison, and placed it on Solomon's desk. Solomon took the paper and examined it, holding it up to his monocled eye. "Yes, grand, another one," he muttered. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, Your Honor," Jeremaias said politely. "What? No, sorry, just talking to myself." Solomon was now sizing him up. "Brother Jeremaias Auromere, at your service." "Brother? A priest? We've had three priests try this already." "No, Your Honor, I'm a paladin." "You look like a priest," Solomon said, still looking Jeremaias over. "It's the glasses," Jeremaias said charitably. "They do give me a cerebral sort of look." "Um...yes. That's what it is. So, you're here about the grave robbery, Brother Jeremaias." "If that's what's meant by your notice, yes, Your Honor. Is it merely plundering of relics, or complete removal of bodies from graves?" "Complete removal, and it's escalated now to necromancy. We've had sightings of risen dead wandering around." "Attacks?" "Not yet. They just seem to be lingering out there, and then they vanish." "Have you followed any tracks?" "They vanish, too." "Of course." Solomon peered suspiciously at Jeremaias, but Jeremaias maintained a polite poker face. He really had meant nothing by it--nothing against the guards of Lakeshire, anyway. "The removals are always at night, but the guards never see anything. But last night it came to a head." "How so?" "One of the graves opened itself. What came out nearly tore Ashlock's head off." "He's all right?" Jeremaias asked quickly. "Yes, just scared out of his wits, like half my guard corps. We've seen all kinds of insanity here, Brother Jeremaias, but this beats all." "No doubt it does, Your Honor. Fortunately, this is no new madness to me; and by the Light's grace, I will put an end to it." Solomon looked like he wanted to argue, but he bit his lip instead and nodded. "All right, Brother, what do you need from me?" "A chance to speak with your guards, and if you have any other witnesses with new information, I should like to speak with them, too, please." "I'll set you up at the inn, too." "No need; if all goes well, I'll be finished tonight." With a list of names and addresses, Jeremaias went in search of information. He only wished he felt as confident as he had let on... Chapter Two I am a paladin. My path is Compassion. My faith is my reason. My calling is holiness. Hot though they were by day, the Redridge Mountains were beautiful by night. The White Lady was at the top of her nightly procession, and a cool breeze blew from Lake Everstill up over the still-warm soil, through the houses, and up over the cliff where a paladin lay, parboiling in his armor as he watched the graveyard through a spyglass. It was dull work, was a stakeout, and deeply uncomfortable in the summer heat. No amount of drinking water or cold compresses on his neck had really helped him to feel alert. He had to come up with a solution--and he had one: aura-shifting, but it bordered on irreverent. Still, there wasn't any other way he could puzzle out. With an apology to the Light, Jeremaias drew in his mind a picture of flames, searing fire. He imagined the fervent heat--and then, in his imagination, brought his will to bear. He imagined thrusting his hand into the flames, and they parted, turning aside from his aura. In reality, the effect was sweet, refreshing, and immediate; the heat seemed almost to flee from him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and resumed his vigil. Long hours of watching nothing is death to the active mind, and Jeremaias found his thoughts straying to the people he'd met that day. The guards, brave against any other foe but out of their depth against the undead. The villagers, frightened and reticent. And the young lady... ...Blakely, Miss Rebecca Blakely. She'd been the most interesting, and bravest witness of all. "It was about two weeks ago, Brother Jeremaias," Miss Blakely began as they sat in the parlor of the well-tiled house. "I go to visit Grandma's grave every week, to put flowers on it--my father's mother, you know. She was a wonderful lady." "I'm sure she was," Jeremaias said politely. "Oh, but I'm getting off track! I'm sorry. Okay, well, I went down there with a bunch of daffodils I got from Martie Jainrose, and there it was: Grandma's grave just wide open!" Her blue eyes were huge, as if she had just discovered this dreadful thing a moment ago. "And what did you do then?" "Well, I...I kind of looked to see. I mean, I was scared to, because I don't want to see her like that, but at the same time, you have to look, don't you? So I looked." She mimed the act, and her rich brown curls tumbled about rather distractingly. Nobody else had looked into the graves, Jeremaias noted to himself. "And what did you see?" "Nothing!" Miss Blakely spread her hands wide. "Well, I mean, her coffin was in there, but she wasn't, you know?" "I know what you mean. Don't worry, Miss Blakely, I'll set it to rights." "Oh, please do!" she exclaimed. "And...I have a strange question, Brother Jeremaias." "Yes?" "You see, I kind of promised someone something, and swore on Grandma's grave. Do you think they'll think I broke my promise?" It was fortunate that he had such command of himself, or else he would have burst out laughing--and he wasn't sure if she was joking. If she was, she was witty; and if not, she was still charming. Brave, to actually look into the open grave, too. He tried very hard not to think about how pretty she was. Fair of face, full of grace, able to make a man compose poetry when his attention ought to be on his work. He shook his head and peered even more keenly through the spyglass. His work presented itself at last: dark shapes moving among the graves. Jeremaias looked more closely, and saw the usual sort of thing. Three of them with picks and shovels, dressed in dark clothing, with a two-wheeled cart. One of them was likely the necromancer. It was time. With a whispered prayer, he blessed himself; the feeling of new strength flooded through him. He put on his glasses, and then his helmet, and went down among the dead and the doomed. There was no point in concealment; his plate armor would give him away. Instead, he rushed them, sword and shield in hand, shouting out a call for their surrender. At first, they froze at the sight: a shining paladin, decked in white and gold armor, with a sword in his fist. Who could see that and not tremble? But the initial shock passed, and one of them recovered the presence of mind to throw a pick at him. Jeremaias dove forward under the pick, tucking into a roll, and coming to his feet without losing momentum. A few yards between him and them, and he would strike with the flat of his blade and shield to take them prisoner. Then he would sort out who was the necromancer, and-- The ground stirred, rumbled, and shook around him, all around him. A split second suggested an earthquake, until he saw the earth at the foot of each headstone begin to crack and yawn open, rotting or skeletal hands groping their frantic way up. A wave of cold washed over him, chilling him even through the summer night. Some paladins were granted the ability to sense the undead; but as this was no physical sense, the brain often defaulted to some other sensation to process it. A paladin might see the undead as a colored aura, or taste and smell rot; a few unfortunates heard the continuous screaming of Nature offended or the souls of the damned. Jeremaias felt it, the frozen touch of death, as if ice had formed on his skin, cold enough to burn. He glanced at the three robbers, but they seemed all as surprised and horrified as he; none of these was the necromancer. They stood bunched together, now petrified with fear, their faces gleaming white in the moonlight as they stared at the corpses that were now standing upright, turning to face Jeremaias. For a split second, he was offended that such horrors existed, but that gave place swiftly to abhorrence of the person who defiled the remains of these good people! This magic must be broken! The Light concurred, and as he swept his sword through the air, a burst of holiness lashed out in every direction from him. The ungodly creations faltered, covered their faces, as the spell that gave them an imitation of life was disrupted. Jeremaias swiftly hacked down two of the six creatures with his blessed blade before the others could recover and attack. They came on as one, bound to the same will. Jeremaias swiftly whirled his sword and struck the earth, and Light blazed up to sear into the army of the dead. One of them crumbled to dust with something like a sigh, but the others howled or groaned and stumbled forward even faster. Now it was hand-to-hand, and Jeremaias was tested. He struck with his sword, pronounced judgment upon his foes. His sword was engaged with one, and another rushed him to bowl him over. He braced, let it bounce off of his shield, and then struck in retaliation; Light flared from his shield, and the thing fell to pieces. He had forgotten the third that had remained, and was cruelly reminded as it leapt onto his back and began to claw at his helmet. He staggered back from the sudden weight, flailing his arms instinctively. Nothing would dislodge the thing, and the other was now grabbing him by the sword arm... Jeremaias ground his teeth as the escape occurred to him. With a flick of his hand and a remembrance that he was holy and they were not, he snarled. "Scram." The creature on his back screeched deafeningly, the clawlike hands let go, and it went scrambling away from him as fast as its half-rotted limbs would carry it. "Scram," he muttered to himself, slamming the undead on his sword arm with the rim of his shield. Its head popped cleanly off, and it collapsed to the ground. "Scram. How heroic." It was with something like irritation that he spun around to watch the retreating corpse. "You are found wanting," he announced, and sent a blast of Light after it. The chill was gone as soon as the last undead fell to pieces, and Jeremaias turned to face the grave robbers--who had taken the opportunity to run for it. They were now halfway down the road, less their tools and cart. With a sigh, he gathered himself to pursue them. Suddenly, some other sensation boiled up close by--but not the chill of the undead. This was a great void, an emptiness, something he ought to be able to sense but he simply couldn't get hold of, something that was somehow both undead and not... A dead, echoing voice croaked something in a language he didn't speak, and his chest constricted in what he knew to be panic--but a panic of what, he didn't know... His legs wobbled and threw him down, his vision blacked out, and he knew no more. Chapter Three I am a paladin. My path is Tenacity. My weapon is my shield. My calling is to protect. He was dying. He lay dying on the field of battle, unable to move or speak as his lifeblood flowed out over the rocky soil. "Who?" asked a voice. "Who did you say? Auromere? Who's that?" You know well who I am, he thought, but he could not say the words aloud. I'm dying because I saved your life. "Oh, him," said the speaker, laughing. "That piece of trash on the ground? What good is he? What's he ever done for anyone?" He could not protest, he couldn't do anything but listen in overpowering misery as other voices joined in the hateful laughter. "Useless! Useless! Never did anything for anyone! Just leave him there to rot. Nobody needs him; let the Light save him if it's so amazing! Better off without him." He was jerked upright then, as if a marionette on strings, and made to dance. His wounds seared painfully, and he felt the blood rush from his body in a great wave. Many hands beat on his armor, demanding, insisting. "Get up, paladin! You haven't bled enough! Bleed for us, slave; you owe us! We deserve it! We're better than a temple-kneeler like you! Get up, paladin! Get up get up get up--" "--get up, please, Brother Jeremaias. Please, I don't know what to do! Oh, help, someone!" He opened his eyes and gasped, then squinted against the searing light of morning. He lay on his back, his sword and shield just within reach; his armor was intact, as far as he could tell, but his helmet was off. "Oh, oh, thank the Light!" Miss Blakely half-sobbed. She stopped tugging at the buckles of his armor, and threw herself across his chest in an approximation of a hug. "I thought you were a goner!" "I'm fine," he said, as calmly as he could despite his rising panic. "Please get off me." "Oh! I'm sorry!" Then ensued a scramble for the both of them to get up, and he checked himself thoroughly. The wounds had been a product of his own mind, it turned out; and nothing had been taken from him. He felt someone fiddling with his cape: Miss Blakely, shaking and beating it to dislodge the red soil that clung like rust and disgrace. "Thank you, yes, that's close enough," Jeremaias said hastily. "How long was I unconscious?" "I don't know," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "You didn't come back in the morning, like the ones before? And everyone said you'd just taken off, but I came out to see. I couldn't believe you'd...Because you're not...You're a paladin. It's obvious how you are." Jeremaias felt a little shamed by her confidence in him; he knew "how he was", like no one else could know. A coward, a fool, prideful, vain, weak, selfish...All the worst qualities in mankind dwelt in his horrible little soul, and he abhorred himself. But while he was cringing from himself, she was still talking: "And here you were, just laid out like...like that. Whoever did that must have been very powerful." Jeremaias had no answer to spare for her, because he had none for himself. Remembering his manners, he offered her his arm, and they went back to Lakeshire. He appreciated that she fell silent quickly, perhaps to let him think. He appreciated a lot about her, the more he thought on it. Solomon was not particularly happy to hear that Jeremaias had been vanquished with a fear spell, but, as he said, he was "grateful you didn't up and run without saying goodbye." "I am not saying goodbye, Your Honor," Jeremaias answered him firmly, "because I am not leaving." "Nobody would blame you," Solomon started to say. "Censure means nothing to me," Jeremaias said. "There are only right and wrong, and right demands I stay. I am a paladin." His mind was at work again, and he began to pace around the office. "It was a death knight--one. The grave robbers work for him. He must not have expected me, and panicked when I moved to capture them." "How do you figure?" "He raised six mindless minions at once to cover their escape. Doing that consigns the risen dead to pure cannon fodder; and yet he's been employing his accomplices to dig up and carry away the bodies. It means he wants to create more intelligent minions, such as ghouls or geists. He sacrificed six possible intelligent minions right away, on a moment's notice, knowing that they would be unequal to anything but keeping my attention." Jeremaias tapped his chin thoughtfully, noting as he did that he needed to shave. "So he's scared of you, Brother Jeremaias?" Solomon said--sounding a bit doubtful. Jeremaias decided not to take it personally. "I'd say he's more afraid of being identified. If he feared me, he would have slain me while I was incapacitated. He was more concerned that his accomplices escape--possibly because they know who he is. And that, I think, is how we draw him out." ***** That night, the three grave robbers crept back into the graveyard--hesitantly, fearfully. They picked their way between graves both open and closed, moving gradually toward the tools and the cart they had left behind. They must retrieve these; otherwise, these belongings could be used to scry out their location, and all would be lost. Jeremaias had counted on that. He watched the culprits from the top of the rocks, a little distance away, and guards from the town were in similar advantageous positions. "When you see me strike, Marshal," he said to Marshal Marris. "There better be no more death-knight tricks," Marris murmured. "Leave him to me," Jeremaias answered, trying to sound supremely confident. "I know his game now. You worry about taking those three alive." Marris turned and gestured to the guards, who quietly prepared for what was to come next. What came next was that Jeremaias stood up swiftly and took two running steps forward. "Stop there!" he called out, and flung his shield arm forward. A disc of light split the night, careening rapidly into the startled grave robbers. It struck the nearest one, and as he staggered, it bounded off and struck the others in rapid succession. It was only a light hit, to unbalance them rather than kill-- There was a crack, a boom--and then several. One of the robbers fell rather than stumbling. It took Jeremaias a half-moment to realize that the guards had opened fire. "No, no, stop!" he shouted, watching helplessly as the stricken robber jerked about, bullets tearing through her body. "Rush them, don't shoot them! Cease fire! Cease fire!" Perhaps they couldn't hear him; perhaps they didn't care; but the rifles blasted on. A second robber fell, writhing, dying, to the ground, and the third spun around when he was shot in the arm. Without thinking, Jeremaias threw a shield of Light all around the survivor. Bullets pinged off of it, the cowering man within taking no further harm. "CEASE FIRE!" he roared at the top of his lungs. The order was repeated back now, and the storm of gunfire ceased. To a background of Marshal Marris unleashing the seamier parts of his vocabulary at his men, two guards hustled down to the shining sphere and its prisoner. Inside of it, the prisoner could only look up at his captors; the force and pressure necessary to protect him prevented him from fighting or even moving. "We need to question the suspects," Jeremaias said, striding forward--and stepping carefully over the two new corpses. "And we don't have a soulbinder handy, so we need them alive." "Not my fault," Marris snapped. "And when I find out what idiot fired the first shot, he's going in the lake, armor and all. Then the rest of you idiots are going with him!" He turned back to unload on the guards again. Jeremaias allowed himself a shake of the head--all the expression he would allow, especially in light of how angry he was--and released the shield of Light. The prisoner took a deep breath of free air, turned to flee... ...and fell into the waiting arms of the guards as Jeremaias punched him. Stunned, the robber could only be dragged away. The graveyard quickly emptied of all the living, except for the paladin, who bent to examine the newly dead: a man and a woman, both young, both wearing expressions of shock and horror. He knew the look, but more than that, he saw their eyes; the robbers were gone, both of them, beyond recall even of the most powerful spells of the Holy Light. Whatever their verdict and sentence, it would come down from a higher judge than any on this world. "I'm sorry," he whispered, gently closing their eyes. Then he rose, slowly, and went up into the town. Chapter Four I am a paladin. My path is Respect. My mercy is a clean death. My calling is retribution. The cold moonlight gleamed over the worn gravestones, the grassy soil, the rocks, and the armor of the paladin who stood, alone, among the graves. He stood very still, in an attitude of vigilance, with a crystalline greatsword drawn and held before him, point resting on the dirt and both hands clasped on the pommel. He might have reasonably been mistaken for a monument. Within, he was all memory, thought, prayer. As if arming himself, he addressed every thought, contemplated it, and brought it into place. Before his mind's eye was his own image, stalwart, immovable, inexorable--alone in the darkness, shining, and the darkness shrinking from him. The captive he had taken the previous night had resisted interrogation, at first. "I'll tell you nothing," he snarled. He was the oldest of the three, or so he seemed; his brown beard was not sparse like the other man's, and there were crow's feet about his eyes even when his face was at rest. His eyes were quick and darting with fear, though, and his arms strained against the shackles that held him in his chair. Fear. Fear drove this one, perhaps of what his master might do. Jeremaias had felt a deep pity for him; fear always awaited those who chose a path of unrighteousness. He was lucky, though, was the prisoner. He had almost joined his two friends in the grave. It had been a horrible mistake; the first shot had not been fired by a guard, but by a townsman's son a little distance away, shooting at a boar that had been plaguing his father's farm. The boy, Aaron Aaronson, had been very proud of the single, clean shot through the head that had killed his target. He was also very sorry, of course, about what had happened afterwards--and had eagerly jumped at the chance to redeem his mistake, when Jeremaias had offered. That redemption would come shortly. A soon redemption, unlike with the prisoner. Jeremaias had reasoned with the man. He had pleaded. He had preached and exhorted and rebuked--all to no effect. "You will continue to resist," Jeremaias said at last, "until you understand. So, you need to rethink your life." And he reached out with his bare hand and gently touched the prisoner on the brow. Instantly, as if a veil had dropped over the prisoner's head, his eyes ceased to see the world around him. His face blanched, contorted, and he let out a low moan. "No..." Jeremaias stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back, as the prisoner began to wail in horror. It was hard for him to watch the man's suffering, but he must--and with no sign of negative reaction. Solomon did not have that duty. White-faced, he stared at the terrified prisoner. "What are you--torture? That's not legal." "It's not torture, Your Honor," Jeremaias answered as calmly as he could. "I simply prodded his conscience. He's doing this to himself." "By the Light," Solomon whispered. "Yes, by the Light; he's seeing his whole life from its perspective. If he suffered less, I would be more concerned." The prisoner's moans and struggles subsided into limp sobbing. Jeremaias knelt before him, and kindly took his hands. Jeremaias allowed his compassion to show through now, allowed the man to see how he suffered along with him. "It's not too late," Jeremaias urged him. "While there's life, there's hope. You can turn away from this path--and while you must still face the justice of man, the Light can forgive. Will you make that change? Will you help make it right?" As the man nodded, choking back more tears, Jeremaias looked up instinctively, and saw the delicate face of Miss Blakely looking in through the window--confused, a little frightened, but also awed... The man had thanked Jeremaias, after the confession was done, and sworn he would learn to be good. That was a satisfaction, and even if he failed that night, even if he was slain...Jeremaias had done one good deed. It was all worthwhile. That thought brought everything into place, the last piece of armor. He was now girded for the coming battle. He could go into it with peace. When he felt that horrible emptiness well up behind him, he didn't have to turn. "Edial Redblade." The death knight stopped at the sound of his name, and Jeremaias didn't bother to suppress his smile. After all, he was wearing a helmet; nobody would see. "He understood that you had thrown him away, like the other two. It left him with no feeling of loyalty. That's bad leadership." "I don't care what you think, little boy," Redblade said, his voice flat and echoing, just the same as any other death knight's. "And yet, this 'little boy' has thwarted you twice and cut off your hands. How swiftly does an insult turn on the giver, no?" "You preach like a priest." "Does this mean you'll repent and convert?" "No." "Well, then, I suppose I must fight you. I can't let you go on desecrating the townsfolk's memories." Jeremaias turned now, still holding the sword before him--but he reversed his grip on the hilt. Edial Redblade was huge--almost as large as Corporal Stonewall, which meant he was nearly a foot taller than Jeremaias and quite wider. His black beard was patchy, as the skin of his jaw was half rotted away, and despite that he wore a helmet that covered the upper half of his face, Jeremaias could see that a glowing blue eye was missing. His armor was not very different from that of Acherus' denizens. This was clearly not Jeremaias' best idea ever. "You can't really stop me, boy." The death knight drew his own sword, and the runes glowed fiery in the night--red, instead of blue. "But I'll help you sort out your priorities." With that, his free hand shot forward, clutching some sort of medallion that was darker than the night around them. That darkness expanded, grew, and surged toward Jeremaias, unfurling to enclose him-- --and there was another crack, the thunder of a rifle, and the artifact flew out of the death knight's hand in a shower of sparks. Young Aaronson, above, quickly shouldered his smoking rifle and fled the scene to his home, his work done. Before Redblade could respond to the new target, Jeremaias lunged. The runeblade came up in an awkward counterstrike, but Jeremaias caught it along the edge of his sword and came in closer to throw his elbow into Redblade's face. They battled back and forth, trading blows, mostly parrying or missing cleanly. But it was not the physical battle of swords and brawn that was the important; it was the unseen but felt battle of forces, Light against Void. When Edial's runeblade struck at Jeremaias, it left him with a chill of pain unfelt and death promised; and Jeremaias' holiness forever tore at Edial's spirit, judging and convicting him. The night wore on as they fought, neither flagging, neither ceasing. As the sky brightened with the first streaks of dawn, Jeremaias forced Edial out of the graveyard and into the open, out onto the paving stones. The sun came fully up, and the villagers awoke to find a mighty battle still raging upon their streets. A death knight, the champion of the Void, of the grave, of ice and fear and pain, struggled against a paladin, champion of Light and life and truth. Two men--no, two symbols, the embodiment of principles themselves--strove back and forth. It was a spiritual war, and it seemed that was how it must be. Some of the people rushed out into the street to watch, and others knelt to pray. Some, including one particular young lady, did both. At first, it seemed the knights were equal, balanced, but as they warred on, it became obvious that one was now growing stronger rather than weaker. Perhaps it was the prayers and goodwill that strengthened him; perhaps it was his own conviction, for a paladin's might is derived from his moral certainty. But as the people cheered and prayed and hoped, the paladin drove the death knight back, out of Lakeshire, all the way to the bridge! Desperate, the death knight lashed out with all his power in one single blow. The force of it lifted the paladin off of the ground, flung him back, sent him crashing to the cobblestones. For a moment, it looked dire. But then, the people rushed forward. Hands lifted the paladin, pulled him to his feet, patted him and caressed his armor plates with reverence and even love. Words of encouragement were spoken and shouted to him. It was enough. The paladin charged, and leapt high into the air, his sword lifted to strike. The death knight raised his runeblade to strike at the obvious opening, but-- --the paladin's eyes opened, and Light blazed forth from them. The death knight flinched, and it was his undoing. The sword struck into the stones between them, and a great wave of holy power surged forth, throwing him back. The paladin's sword was a blur of crystal and Light; a flurry of blows struck and struck again, forcing the death knight ever nearer to the side of the bridge. The death knight stumbled over the curb, hopped up onto the railing to save himself, and turned in time to see the paladin winding up as if to throw something. "Begone!" the paladin roared, and he flung a hammer made of purest light at his foe. The hammer took Edial Redblade squarely in the chest, and with a cry of shock, he toppled and fell off of the bridge. The paladin, followed by dozens of townsfolk, hurried to look over--only to see a skeletal gryphon swoop in and catch the falling man, carrying him away to the north. Jeremaias took off his helmet. He felt emptied, hollowed out, as the Light released him and restored him to himself--cleansed, but empty, just as he had felt when it had first come upon him years ago. He felt disappointed, and as the overflow subsided, like a failure. His enemy, though thwarted, had escaped him. He was also sore, bruised, bleeding from a dozen small wounds, and exhausted from short sleep--and now he began to feel all of it at once. His reverie was broken as Miss Blakely rushed forward and took his arm, smiling up into his face. She was all happiness and admiration. He turned to see all the smiling, tearful, laughing faces full of joy and hope and faith, he knew the Light had won a victory more profound than any he could have won by himself. And he had been allowed to help. He felt humbled, and honored. Chapter Five I am a paladin. I embody the Three Virtues. My symbol is an open hand. My calling is to give all. The sun was descending gracefully over Stormwind, taking with it the worst of the day's heat. Sweat stung in Jeremaias' many wounds, and his armor was hot and weighed upon him in his exhaustion. The people of Lakeshire were celebrating his defeat of Edial Redblade, and glad he was to have given them a cause to celebrate. Honestly, the praise embarrassed him. He was the hero of the hour, despite his insistence that it was not he, but the Holy Light who ought to be thanked. Whatever the case, that hour was drawing to a close, and he knew it, and he felt it. In a few days, some other catastrophe would strike, and some other fellow would come along and resolve it; Jeremaias would be replaced in the public memory with another hero, and life would go on. Yes, it was time to move on, before he ceased being Lord Jeremaias the Incomparable, and became again Brother Jeremaias the Improbable. So it was that he was alone as he loaded the pack mule, which stood patiently under its burden of camping gear, flicking its ears at the flies. Stalwart, his charger, was still frolicking on some astral plane somewhere, and his master hoped he would deign to make an appearance; he didn't relish the prospect of walking back to the city, not with the nightmare artifact in his packs, destined for SI:7 by Magistrate Solomon's command. Time to go back to the city, to the contradictory experience of being alone in a multitude. It was by his own choice, granted, but he didn't feel he had any other. To be holy was to be set apart, kept clean so that the divine might find him worthy when he was called to serve. To be set apart was to be alone. Or...perhaps not so alone. Rebecca Blakely's mailing address was now carefully written into his journal, and he had given her his. The distance would help him see clearly as they got to know each other. Perhaps they could be friends. They could never be more, but they could be friends--at least, until she got herself a jealous husband, but he could enjoy her correspondence until then. Was there harm in that? He could easily convince himself there wasn't. There was a flash of light and a crack; displaced air rushed over Jeremaias as the smell of incense filled his nose. "Really, Stalwart?" he asked tiredly. Stalwart snorted--incense again--and looked away carelessly. "Too bad you didn't have an audience this time," Jeremaias said, hoisting himself into the saddle. "You'll have to settle for boring old me. Shall we go?" But the spirit-horse's head swiveled about, looking pointedly at none other than Miss Blakely. She stood in the doorway of her parents' house, her beautiful blue eyes forlorn as she waved to him. Jeremaias raised his hand in salute--but Stalwart was having none of this tepid, socially-acceptable nonsense. The charger, splendid in his gold and blue barding, glowing with sanctity, and bearing upon his back a mighty champion of the Holy Light, reared up grandly, churning the air with his shining hooves. Before Jeremaias could say a word, Stalwart wheeled and galloped away. Jeremaias lost his grip on the mule's lead almost immediately, and could only look back at the poor beast, trotting along as best it could to catch up. "Always have to have drama," he growled at Stalwart. "Why do you always have to have drama?" ***** Caverns are unpleasant, humid, and unfriendly to flesh both living and dead, but rumors of eldritch things dwelling in their lightless recesses make even the most dauntless adventurers hesitate. This one was no different; and the addition of ancient bones to the mouth of the cave had turned away every inquiring eye. It was no lie, though, to say that something horrible dwelt here. Deep in the dark, far back, lurid green light played over the alchemical apparatus on scavenged tables. The stink of rot, the sick smell of coagulated blood and fluid, the heavy odor of embalming fluid would have choked and gagged anyone whose lungs still needed air and whose stomach still needed food. In the sickly, pale, unwholesome light, the shapes of men and elves and orcs shuffled about--some whole, some stooped or missing limbs--in a hushed hurry. Some were hastily packing away these tools and chemicals into crates marked with seals of various nations, while others picked over piles of broken corpses--the fruit of an unsavory harvest. A great, rotted beak began to nip at the festering bodies. "Ey, get off," a necromancer snarled, shoving at the skeletal gryphon's head. It let out a gargling sort of cry, and its beak clacked at his arm, within an inch of severing it. "Miasma." A hollow voice echoed from the darkest reach of the cave, and the gryphon immediately looked to him. "Miasma, come." The skeletal gryphon bestowed one last malevolent look at the necromancer before clattering his way to crouch at his master's side. The unholy fire in its eyes washed over the man attending the master, making his tense, frightened face look all the more like a portrait of the remorse of the damned. Connor carefully drew the ghost-hair thread between his seamed lips before inserting it into the needle's eye, and then began again to stitch up the side of the death knight. "Please don't move, master," he pleaded, looking up instinctively. It was a mistake--not because Edial Redblade was offended by it, but because of the fresh terror his one eye struck into his servant. Connor quickly looked down, his withered fingers working feverishly, trying not to tremble. He felt the approach of another servant, rather than seeing, and heard the rustle of sackcloth as the servant bowed. "Lord Redblade," intoned a new voice, with an obsequious whine Connor could not stomach. "Lord Redblade, we've rounded up the ghouls, and we're about fifteen minutes from having the equipment packed away." "Good." The death knight's voice sent a chill through Connor. "You will cart the equipment over the bridge while the villagers celebrate their delivery, and wait until they are too drunk to see before herding the ghouls." "Where are we going, my lord?" "To the next safe house." Connor's needle missed its mark, and tore a shred in the damaged skin. He stopped, cursing himself silently, but Redblade did not seem to notice. Connor began again, mending the rent as if it were in a garment. "And what of the paladin, my lord?" the servant whined, and stepped back a little when Redblade growled and sat up straighter. "It was a fluke, I'm sure, my lord," he added hastily. "But he ought to be punished for his insolence in raising his hand against one so mighty as you." Redblade relaxed into his chair again, Connor trying desperately not to break the thread or tear the delicate skin again. "It was a fluke," Redblade repeated. "And he will be punished soon enough, like all the rest." "But it cannot stand!" "It must. For now, they think me driven out and defeated--a fluke myself. It is well to leave it that way." The servant hesitated, but finally bowed again. "The day will come," he swore, "when all will know your might and majesty, my lord." "Yes. Now go, make my wishes known." It happened that Connor had just tied off the thread when Redblade stood up. "And make it done orderly. We can risk nothing at this point. Order, that is what we will have--what we must have." Connor trembled. Redblade had been making more of these speeches lately, and while they were grand, he was unsure what to make of the change. "This world is ending," declaimed Redblade. "Our enemies stand at the gates, ravening. We shall bring order, and unite all the world together in a single army to meet them! Come, my people! Come, let us take those whom we have redeemed, and go to gather more!" Those who could, bowed in obedience, and their work was redoubled. Redblade bent his gaze upon Connor, who cowered. "Come, Connor Hemstitch," he said. "For so I name you now. You will be at my side when the endless night falls." Connor was unsure whether to be honored, or horrified.Category:Tales